The Fall of Boromir
by crystalblood
Summary: This story recounts the final hour of Boromir's life from his point of view; I used the accounts of Frodo, Aragorn, and Pippin from the book to recreate it.


I've been thinking a while about this, and indeed, almost every time I watch the movie Fellowship of the Ring. Why do they make Boromir seem so evil? In the book he wasn't. It's just that the ring overthrew him…it was Boromir who was the last to leave Moria, not Aragorn. Speaking of which, what's with all the Aragorn-hating in the movie? Boromir never Aragorn-hated! What a concept. I suppose that doesn't matter, however. The point is, it's the movie and its beautiful imagery that gave birth to the idea, but it's the book that is making me pull through with this. I'm about to attempt a story about the last hour of Boromir's life: from his point of view, and most importantly, his death. Of course, in the book as well as in the movie Aragorn witnesses his actual passing, and later on in the book, it's recounted from Pippin's point of view, but the reader is never there when the fight for the two young hobbits was taking place. I wish to recreate that, and what better way than from Boromir's perspective? I think that it will work. But keep in mind, I'm _attempting_ here…I'm starting at the point where the book leaves off, after Boromir falls and realizes the deadly mistake he has made (that part is similar to the movie). **Details, poetry, and all dialogue are taken from the book, not the movie. Of course, all of this speculation of Boromir's is _my _speculation; Tolkien may have had a completely different view of Boromir's thoughts.** I start with a description of Boromir taken from the book when he is first introduced:

~And seated a little apart was a tall man with a fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, proud and stern of glance. He was cloaked and booted as if for a journey on horseback; and indeed though his garments were rich, and his cloak was lined with fur, they were stained with long travel. He had a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set; his locks were shorn about his shoulders. On a baldric he wore a great horn tipped with silver that now was laid upon his knees. ~

After a while Boromir stopped calling for Frodo. He was probably far away by now; those Hobbits run quickly, and silently. Invisible, the Ringbearer would be nearly impossible to track. He sighed and swept his disheveled hair out of his face. His dirt-covered hand wiped the last of his tears off of his cheeks. It was time for action…but what was he to do? He couldn't follow Frodo- he would have to go back to the rest of the Fellowship and tell them what he'd done. But how could he do that? He was the greatest warrior in Gondor, the love and hope of its people, the apple of his father's eye. He was to be its next Steward! Just look at what a mess he'd made of everything…

The trip to Rivendell had been difficult, but Boromir had made it. Alone, he had journeyed ten and one hundred days. His errand was not for aide in war; his errand was to seek Elrond Halfelven's wisdom. For a dream had plagued his younger brother Faramir's sleep, and had even once come to him. In the dream, the Eastern sky grew dark as if cloaking the dawn and any future dawn to come, and the sound of thunder grew. But in the West, a light lingered, and a remote voice was heard crying:

_Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

_In Imladris it dwells;_

_There shall be counsels taken_

_Stronger than Morgul spells._

_There shall be shown a token_

_That Doom is near at hand,_

_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

_And the Halfling forth shall stand._

Faramir had been greatly troubled, but their father Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, had said only that Imladris is what Rivendell was called of old. Faramir wished to set out immediately to seek the Household of Elrond, but since the way was long and dangerous, and he cared greatly for his brother, Boromir took the journey upon himself.

After days of toil, he found the fabled stronghold, and was then admitted to a great Council. There he met many. The first he met of course were the Elves. The ones native to the place all seemed to be dark-haired and grey-eyed, while those hailing from Mirkwood, the Grey Havens or Lothlórien seemed to be light-haired and light-eyed. Some Elves seemed ageless; though at a glance they looked young, but if one examined them closely, he or she would be able to discriminate the depth of their eyes, the wisdom that seemed etched there. Among these was Elrond himself. Others were as young and gay as children, and just as candid and mischievous. Their garb was mostly in autumn colors, and flowing as if they wished not to be contained in any way, and their movements were graceful and fluid. Their voices could create visions in front of the eyes of anyone who cared to listen, especially when they sang. Even though their songs were in Elvish, one could still witness the pictures of peace and war; triumph and defeat; of Middle-Earth and Valínor, where the Valar dwell.

Boromir was not the only Man there, however. There was one other, by whom the Elves called Dúnadan; to others he was also known as Elessar, or Estel. Some even called him the non-Elvish name Strider. This was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the Heir of Isildur, of the northern Númenoreans, which meant he was also next in line to the throne of Gondor. He was a Man much like himself – tall, dark-haired, and grey-eyed. The clothes he wore were also worn with much travel, though they were not of rich make. He seemed quiet and thoughtful, though hardened, as if he had seen much battle. He seemed much at home with the Elves.

Dwarves were also present in this haven, though the Elves and Dwarves were on no friendly terms. The Dwarves were shorter than the Men and Elves, though no less sturdy. They had broad shoulders and armor made of the strongest metal, and all of them carried weapons – mainly axes – of the highest quality. All of them sported long, plaited beards, the colors ranging from deep brown to snowy white. One could see they would be powerful allies…or formidable foes.

Though the Dwarves' presence in Imladris was strange, even stranger still were the Holbytla, the Periannath, the Halflings; the self-proclaimed Hobbits. Boromir rode to Rivendell in hopes that a riddle might be solved, and what did he find but all manner of races mingling in peace and creatures out of fairy tales, walking in truth! For that is all Hobbits are to those of the South. Imagine his surprise when he first saw them; Bilbo and Frodo were their names, both with the surname Baggins, being as they were cousins. The Halflings, of which there were three more present, were at about a Man's waist, with large hairy feet. They seemed all together out of place among those of a sturdier nature, but they held their own.

The Council itself held many Elves, most of which were considered Lords, such as Elrond and Glorfindel. Two of the Hobbits were present – in fact, that is where he first saw Bilbo, who seemed very old, and Frodo, who seemed quite young. There were several Dwarves, himself, and Aragorn there as well. Also present was Gandalf, the Grey Pilgrim, who often visited Minas Tirith and taught his brother Faramir if business happened to bring him down South. The Wizard, who looked like an old Man, sat near the Hobbits, and also close to Elrond.

Much was discussed at the Council, news from all the ends of the world: as far West as the Grey Havens, as far East as Dale, and as far South as Gondor. When it was his turn to speak he told of his dream, that horrific prophesizing dream that his brother Faramir had also experienced.

That was when he had first known Aragorn's identity, for he possessed the Sword that was broken. That was also when Boromir had first beheld It- the One Ring. Frodo had held it up for all to see, and he had been enthralled…the glimmer of the gold, the promise It held! Gondor could be saved if this was used correctly. It was a gift! A gift to the foes of Mordor…that's what he had said just a little bit ago, was it not? How frightened Frodo had looked…

Oh, and all of that news, all of the trouble reported, it had all pointed to the same source – the Ring of Power. None could use it, for it would inevitably turn all good works to evil, but there was no way in which to destroy it but to go South, across the river Anduin from Gondor to the land of Mordor, where Sauron dwells. There stands Orodruin, the Mountain of Fire, where Sauron had forged the Ring. That was the only place the Ring could be destroyed…

At length, it was decided that the Ring must be obliterated. A company that represented all the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth was chosen to accompany Frodo, who had been appointed to annihilate the Ring of Power.

A few months after the Council, the Fellowship of the Ring set out from Imladris. There were nine: the Wizard Gandalf, the Elf Legolas (Prince of Mirkwood; son of King Thranduil), the young Dwarf Gimli (son of Gloín), the four Hobbits Meriadoc, Peregrin, Samwise, and Frodo, and the two Men, Aragorn and himself. They were all quite capable of taking care of themselves and fit for such a dangerous journey, but for the hobbits. Poor things, they weren't used to all the toil of travel and secrecy. They were used to waking in soft feather beds, and visiting the pub at night. The Green Dragon, wasn't it? They used to reminisce about it all the time…and Pippin wasn't even an adult yet- just a teenager, to their kind. They should never have been allowed to accompany Frodo…and Frodo. Wretched thing, though he was an adult, the Ring made him look the same as he did on the day he received It- a young Hobbit, just out of his 'tweens'. So then why did he have to carry this awful burden? Why couldn't he, a mighty soldier, have done so? What about Aragorn, his king? Or even Gandalf, the wisest of them all? Why didn't Elrond keep it? Of course Boromir knew all of these answers…all of them knew. Yet Boromir knew that the others, that is, all of the Big Folk, were asking the same questions, and carried the same concerns. The four of them, they're so small, how will they make it? They're no warriors, or wizards. Such a burden on Frodo…why couldn't it have been placed on someone else? We will all have to protect these young Hobbits, at any cost.

So they had. The Fellowship carried the Hobbits up (and down) Caradhras, they had protected them from the wolves so they didn't have to fight much, and though they couldn't completely protect them from the slaughter of Moria, they had tried so hard…and Gandalf had given up his life for them…sure, he had done if for the sake of the Ring, that It still might be destroyed, but truly, Boromir thought, he had done it for those four little Hobbits, and especially Frodo, whom he had known with his cousin Bilbo for a long time.

The looks that they all beheld on their faces! Naturally, after they had run out of arrow range from Moria, Boromir had been overcome with grief. But grief was nothing new to him. He had grown up in Gondor, a country of war and strife. He lost comrades every day, and how many more would have died while he was gone? If he had gotten the Ring…but no, he knew that was wrong now…and Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, was also saddened, for he had probably known Gandalf for thousands of years. And Aragorn, his king, was heartbroken- his mentor had just died. Gimli was also distraught, but the Hobbits…those innocent creatures, which knew nothing about death but that it was peace after old age, had watched as Gandalf sacrificed himself for them. The wolves had merely been animals, and the Orcs, though terrifying, were nothing better. The Balrog had scared them out of their wits, but it was nothing compared to that cold, dark empty spot that Gandalf used to reside in their hearts, and minds. This entire experience was absolutely horrendous. Why are they here? Why are these beings the ones that have to carry the burden of a world, this onerous duty passed onto them when it never should have reached the Shire? It seemed as if they couldn't have gone on…

Yet they all did, for the good of the cause. Though Lórien, the most Southern of the Elven strongholds (ruled by Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel), offered a respite from their troubles, it was easy to tell that the death of Gandalf weighed heavily upon them all. The Lady Galadriel, though stunning and surreal, was no fool. She had eyed them all, sending images…_will you go on? Or will you choose that which you most desire?_ To Boromir's complete horror, she showed him what he himself had been denying- that his dream was to free Gondor, yes, but accomplishing it by using the Ring of Power, and exulting himself above all others! Oh, the folly…how long by then had he been under the Ring's sway?

The Hobbits should have stayed in Lothlórien, especially the three young ones.  Surely the Lady of the Wood had shown them their beloved Shire, and perhaps to Sam a bit of garden to call his very own…but they had chosen to stay and support Frodo. Strong, but ignorant of what hardships lay ahead.

Then the Company traveled down the Great River Anduin in three Elven boats; Boromir steered the one containing Merry and Pippin. Yet all the while, he stayed close to Aragorn's boat, for he rowed with Sam and Frodo…and the Ring. Oh, the Ring…he couldn't chase it from his mind. There came points when it seemed he had awoken from a spell, and he tried to remember what he had just done, and then he would realize he had been dreaming about taking It away from Frodo…

At night he dreamt of the Fellowship. They would all be settling around the campfire, and Aragorn, the leader since Gandalf's death, would take first watch. The small fire that they risked would quickly die down, and the only shadows left would be that which were cast by the light of the moon and stars. He would be in that state of semi-consciousness between wakefulness and sleep when he would notice that his king has begun to nap. Just when Boromir is about to wake him, Frodo begins crawling from his resting place towards him. At first the Hobbit is hidden in shadow, but then as he comes closer, the moonlight slowly illuminates his face – and it isn't really Frodo. He is a strange creature, some sort of cross between an Orc and that wretched creature Gollum. The necklace that bears the One Ring is hanging freely around his neck, and sparkles in the soft starlight. Then Boromir catches a flash of something else- a glimmer in the Halfling's hand. To his utter horror, it is a dagger! Boromir finds himself frozen to the spot, and Frodo presses the blade against his neck. _You would take It from me! _he growls, and shoves the blade home…Of course these dreams had been nothing but the fancy of a disturbed mind, Boromir knew that now.

After days of having the One Ring dominate his thoughts, there came the day when they reached the Falls of Rauros and the spiked rock of Tol Brandir. They made camp at the foot of Amon Hen, on the stunning lawns of Parth Galen. The next day was the decision day: would the Fellowship follow the path directly to Mordor, or would they set out for Minas Tirith and make way to Mordor from there? Finally, the group decided it was Frodo's choice to make. Frodo set out alone to gather his thoughts and make his verdict.

That was when Boromir could take it no longer- how could Frodo not bring the Ring to Gondor? It must be used to vanquish their enemies! He waited a little then slipped away from the rest of the group.

He found Frodo sitting on a rock, head resting in his hands and deep in thought. Suddenly, he jumped up and twirled around as if facing an enemy, but then noticeably relaxed when he realized that it was just one of his eight companions.

Boromir at once regretted any evil thought he had had about Frodo, and smiled at him kindly. Then he spoke: 'I was afraid for you, Frodo,' he said, coming forward. 'If Aragorn is right and Orcs are near, then none of us should wander alone, and you least of all: so much depends on you. And my heart too is heavy. May I stay now and talk for a while, since I have found you? It would comfort me. Where there are so many, all speech becomes a debate without end. But two together may perhaps find wisdom.'

'You are kind,' answered Frodo. 'But I do not think that any speech will help me. For I know what I should do, but I am afraid of doing it, Boromir: afraid.'

Boromir pondered these words for a moment, allowing the rushing waters to fill his ears. The trees sang as the wind passed through. Frodo, back on his rock, shivered. Still filled with compassion, Boromir went and sat next to him. 'Are you sure that you do not suffer needlessly?' he said. 'I wish to help you. You need counsel in your hard choice. Will you not take mine?'

'I think I know already the counsel you would give, Boromir,' said Frodo. 'And it would seem like wisdom but for the warning of my heart.'

Boromir was overtaken by a sudden suspicion. 'Warning? Warning against what?' he asked sharply.

'Against delay. Against the way that seems easier. Against refusal of the burden that is laid on me. Against – well, if it must be said, against trust in the strength and truth of Men.'

'Yet that strength has long protected you far away in your little country, though you knew it not.'

'I do not doubt the valor of your people. But the world is changing. The walls of Minas Tirith may be strong, but they are not strong enough. If they fail, what then?'

Boromir was incredulous. 'We shall fall in battle valiantly. Yet there is still hope that they will not fail.'

'No hope while the Ring lasts,' said Frodo.

'Ah! The Ring!' said Boromir, his eyes lighting with a consuming fire. 'The Ring! Is it not a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing? So small a thing! And I have seen it only for an instant in the House of Elrond. Could I not have a sight of it again?'

Frodo looked up at him, and it seemed to Boromir that he became cold towards him, and had put up some sort of defense. 'It is best that it should lie hidden,' he answered.

'As you wish. I care not,' Boromir dismissed. 'Yet may I not even speak of it? For you seem ever to think only of its power in the hands of the Enemy: of its evil uses not of its good. The world is changing, you say. Minas Tirith will fall, if the Ring lasts. But why? Certainly, if the Ring were with the Enemy. But why, if it were with us?'

'Were you not at the Council?' answered Frodo. 'Because we cannot use It, and what is done with It turns to evil.'

In the far back of his mind, Boromir knew this to be so. But the fire burned fiercely within him, and he sprang up and began to pace furiously. 'So you go on!' he cried. 'Gandalf, Elrond – all these folk have taught you to say so. For themselves they may be right. These elves and half-elves and wizards, they would come to grief, perhaps. Yet often I doubt if they are wise and not merely timid. But each to his own kind. True-hearted Men, they will not be corrupted.' – Oh the utter lie of those words! – 'We of Minas Tirith have been staunch through long years of trial. We do not desire the power of wizard-lords, only strength to defend ourselves, strength in a just cause. And behold! in our need chance brings to light the Ring of Power. It is a gift, I say; a gift to the foes of Mordor. It is mad not to use it, to use the power of the Enemy against him. The fearless, the ruthless, these alone will achieve victory. What could not a warrior do in this hour, a great leader? What could not Aragorn do? Or if he refuses, why not Boromir? The Ring would give me power of Command. How I would drive the hosts of Mordor, and all men would flock to my banner!'

            _~Boromir strode up and down, speaking ever more loudly. Almost he seemed to have forgotten Frodo, while his talk dwelt on walls and weapons, and the mustering of men; and he drew plans for great alliances and glorious victories to be; and he cast down Mordor, and became himself a mighty king, benevolent and wise. Suddenly he stopped and waved his arms. ~_

'And they tell us to throw it away!' he cried. 'I do not say _destroy _it. That might be well, if reason could show any hope of doing so. It does not. The only plan that is proposed to us is that a halfling should walk blindly into Mordor and offer the Enemy every chance of recapturing It for himself. Folly!

'Surely you see it, my Friend?' he inquired desperately of Frodo, his audience, the Ringbearer. 'You say that you are afraid. If it is so, the boldest should pardon you. But is it not really your good sense that revolts?'

'No, I am afraid,' said Frodo. 'Simply afraid. But I am glad to have heard you speak so fully. My mind is clearer now.'

Boromir had felt exulted. 'Then you will come to Minas Tirith?' he cried.

'You misunderstand me,' replied Frodo.

'But you will come, at least for a while?' Boromir persisted. 'My city is not far now; it is little further from there to Mordor than from here. We have been long in the wilderness, and you need news of what the Enemy is doing before you make a move. Come with me, Frodo. You need rest before your venture, if go you must.' Again filled with concern for his friend, he placed his hand on the hobbit's shoulder in a friendly fashion. But Frodo jerked away, and eyed him warily. Boromir looked down at him, this little being half his size, and whose strength was much less. Earnestly he went on, 'Why are you so unfriendly? I am a true man, neither thief nor tracker. I need your Ring: that you know now; but I give you my word that I do not desire to keep it. Will you not at least let me make trial of my plan? Lend me the Ring!'

'No! No!' cried Frodo. 'The Council laid it upon me to bear it.'

Boromir felt his ire grow. 'It is by our own folly that the Enemy will defeat us,' he cried out. 'How it angers me! Fool! Obstinate fool! Running willfully to death and ruining our cause. If any mortals have claim to the Ring, it is the men of Númenor, and not Halflings. It is not yours save by unhappy chance. It might have been mine. It should be mine. Give it to me!' Frodo scampered to put the rock between them. Noticing his fear, Boromir let some of his rage subside and continued more gently, 'Come, come, my friend! Why not get rid of it? Why not be free of your doubt and fear? You can lay the blame on me, if you will. You can say that I was too strong and took it by force. For I am too strong for you, halfling!' Suddenly his anger came full throttle and he leapt over the rock to grab Frodo and claim the Ring.

But Hobbits are swift. Frodo darted just out of his grasp and again put the rock between them. He was shaking violently, and was taking out the Ring…and disappeared.

Boromir halted mid-tackle and gasped. Where had he gone? Where had Frodo taken the Ring? He ran here and there, searching every nook and crevice in the area- where could he have hid?

'Miserable trickster!' he shouted. 'Let me get my hands on you! Now I see your mind. You will take the Ring to Sauron and sell us all. You have only waited your chance to leave us in the lurch. Curse you and all Halflings to death and darkness!'

And as he ran, he tripped.

His mind was miraculously empty for a moment, and then what he had just done overcame him. He wept.

And wept.

'What have I said?' he had then cried out. 'What have I done? Frodo, Frodo! Come back! A madness took me, but it has passed. Come back!'

He was answered only with the constant music of the falls, and the sweet song of the trees…the water seemed suddenly jovial and full of mirth, and the trees swayed with laughter, laughing at his temerity, his weakness.

Frodo had not come back, not that Boromir blamed him. So here he lay, depressed and full of dread. He stood up slowly and mentally shook himself: he must put what was done behind him. For it was now clear – Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, no longer had his honor. He had not been able to withstand temptation, and now it was too late. He must go tell the others. Boromir slowly and dejectedly made his way back to camp.

At length he drew near and heard their debating voices; he realized they were about to set out to find what had become of Frodo. Though he did not hail them, he made no effort to hide his approach. Once he reached the circle of friends, he paused to make sure all were present. _Ah, so only the Ringbearer is lost. But in betraying him, I have betrayed them all._ Finally he sat, but he could not face them, his friends and companions. He kept his eyes trained on the ground.

'Where have you been, Boromir?' asked Aragorn. 'Have you seen Frodo?'

Boromir hesitated and regarded his king. Did he at all suspect what he had just done? For a while only the sound of Rauros penetrated the silence. 'Yes, and no,' he answered slowly. 'Yes: I found him some way up the hill, and I spoke to him. I urged him to come to Minas Tirith and not to go east. I grew angry and he left me. He vanished. I have never seen such a thing happen before, though I have heard of it in tales. He must have put the Ring on. I could not find him again. I thought he would return to you.' There. It was said; Boromir had confessed his blunder. He had admitted to them all of driving Frodo off, though as of yet he could not bring himself to disclose the fact that the Ring had conquered him. 

'Is that all you have to say?' queried Elessar. When Boromir looked up at Aragorn, his eyes were cold and unkind. Boromir's heartbreak knew no bounds.

'Yes,' he answered with much guilt and trepidation for his actions and their consequences. 'I will say no more yet.'

'This is bad!' cried Samwise, ever Frodo's loyal companion, and hopped to his feet. 'I don't know what this Man has been up to. Why should Mr. Frodo put the thing on? He didn't ought to have; and if he has, goodness knows what may have happened!' Only too shrewdly was Sam guessing what had truly taken place, and what may be befalling Frodo as they speak. Boromir could not face the Ringbearer's brave attendant.

'But he wouldn't keep it on,' argued Merry. 'Not when he had escaped the unwelcome visitor, like Bilbo used to.' _Unwelcome visitor_, Boromir thought bitterly.

'But where did he go? Where is he?' cried Pippin. 'He's been away ages now.'

Aragorn turned again to Boromir. 'How long is it since you saw Frodo last, Boromir?'

He tried to remember. 'Half an hour, maybe. Or it might be an hour. I have wandered for some time since.' Suddenly the utter peril of the situation threw him into an even deeper despair. 'I do not know! I do not know!' he cried out and covered his head with his hands. Grief-stricken, he could say no more.

'An hour since he vanished!' shouted Sam. 'We must try and find him at once. Come on!' He dashed off at once.

'Wait a moment!' their leader yelled after them as they all got up to follow suit. 'We must divide up into pairs, and arrange – here, hold on! Wait!'

No one seemed to care. Merry and Pippin had run right after Sam, and all three of their voices were raised in a chorus: _Frodo! Frodo!_ Legolas and Gimli also had joined the search in another direction. Though the cries could still be heard, Boromir and Aragorn were alone at the camp.

'We shall all be scattered and lost,' groaned the latter. 'Boromir! I do not know what part you have played in this mischief, but help now! Go after those two young hobbits, and guard them at the least, even if you cannot find Frodo. Come back to this spot, if you find him, or any traces of him. I shall return soon.' As good as his word, he swiftly departed after Sam.

Boromir looked up at the empty fields. _How did it come to this? Oh, what have I done? Mischief indeed…_

_Frodo! Frodo!_

The renewal of the hobbits' shouts brought Boromir out of his depressing reverie, and charged him to spring into action. He knew he could never regain his honor, but that did not mean he could no longer protect the two young ones, even though it might never make up for his awful folly.

And so his Doom was sealed.

Boromir ran nimbly through the woods, a hardened warrior used to fighting in other like places, such as Ithilien. Also, being of Númenorean descent, his senses were keener than that of normal Men. It was therefore easy to track the Halflings, who had crashed carelessly through the brush in their haste and worry for Frodo.

After a few minutes, he heard harsh voices in the trees – orc voices! He understood few words from the language from his lifetime of battle with them. These were the words he could pick out from their revolting speech: _Come hither – Plunder – Enforcements – Orders – Come quickly!_ To Boromir's horror, their gruff voices were commingled with higher-pitched voices. Merry and Pippin!

He slightly changed his course in order to reach the source of the noises more quickly. He could discern the sound of metal on metal, and coarse cries of pain. Battle! The hobbits were putting up a fight. Boromir ran all the more swiftly through the woods, guided at once by his fear for the two and his old warrior self taking over.

Finally he came upon the scene. The hobbits were surrounded by between two or three-dozen orcs. At least, that's what he assumed, seeing as they were packed tight in a ring of the goblins. The orc word for _seize_ and _slay_ were heavy in the air. He could not let this happen, and to them least of all!

Boromir gave a wordless cry and leapt through the trees at the gang of orcs. Fueled by his grief, fury, and the fact he no longer had anything of value to lose, he set at fighting with a will. He came to enjoy it, and take a grim satisfaction from seeing their dark blood stain the trees and the brush, and soak slowly into the ground. Mercilessly, he gutted them, beheaded them, and slit their throats with unprecedented speed and ferociousness. The remaining goblins, though they outnumbered him, grew to know the meaning that some men are worth thousands of others and fled, leaving the possessed warrior and the young Halflings behind.

Once sure they were all dead or gone, Boromir gave a sigh of relief. Merry and Pippin were unhurt, and seemed left exhausted, as if their adrenaline had sapped all of their energy. Knowing that they were safe, Boromir took second stock of the scene. All the orcs he had slain were scattered throughout the area, but there was a concentration of hacked limbs in one section. Orc hands and arms were strewn ruthlessly about the spot, and he distinguished the tracks of many hobbit feet on the ground. His eyes drew back to Merry and Pippin; he realized that they had done that. But why had the orcs not slaughtered them?

Boromir reminded himself of the orc words _plunder_ and _seize_. The goblins must have wanted to take them captive! Why? Looking at the hobbits again, it suddenly didn't matter. They could not look for Frodo any longer; the orcs were searching for any and all Halflings, and it would best for them to return to camp.

At this realization, he grew weary from the battle and patted each of the young hobbits on the back. Giving them each small, and what he hoped were encouraging smiles, he motioned them to follow him back to the boats.

He did not know whether or not the hobbits could hear as well as he, but as they made their way back he could hear sounds of battle elsewhere – it seemed as if the rest of the Fellowship had found trouble as well. After he returned Merry and Pippin to safety, he would go out and search for the others, and offer his aid.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, Boromir heard the sound of quickly approaching, heavy feet. He knew the cadence of that march: those steps belonged to the great Uruk-Hai, the giant orcs that had been the brainchild of Sauron and his allies. They must make haste!

But it was too late. A scout had spotted them, and now Boromir could discriminate the shapes of the first of them through the trees. He motioned for the hobbits to run and that he would delay the orcs, but did not hear whether or not they did, for orc feet and voices filled the air with a terrible din. When they came closer, he grew horrified: there were dozens, and the majority of them were Uruks!

A whistling noise passed close to his left ear, then another a bit further off. Arrows! The arrows were black-feathered and thick-shafted, and were very close. They became more frequent, and became as thick as hail. With his shield raised he began to retreat, but when he turned around he saw that Merry and Pippin had stood their ground!

Didn't they understand the danger? But this was no time for arguing. He turned around to face the onslaught. Now their number had increased to hundreds! He could not fight them all. Then he remembered, and brought the Horn of Gondor to his lips.

He blew a blast so mighty the woods shook for miles, and the echoes rang in everyone's ears.

The Uruks were horrified and drew back. The rain of arrows stopped. Nothing but the echoes filled the silence for a while.

But no one came.

Slowly, the orcs realized this, and began their attack in full force. Boromir now had to juggle his shield and his horn, and the blasts were frequent and loud. But still no one heeded his plea.

Now the orcs were too close- he would either have to drop his shield and stand vulnerable to the arrows, or forswear the blowing of the horn.

The shield landed with a thud.

He transferred the horn to his other hand and drew his sword. Dodging the arrows he began to defend himself and the hobbits in earnest. They had also drawn their swords, which were but daggers to the Uruks. He had successfully defeated three orcs and gave a final deafening blow upon the horn. Then an Uruk cleaved it in two.

The Horn of Gondor, and heirloom of the kingdom for many generations, was no more.

Now all that could be heard were the calls of the orcs, the cries of the hobbits, the clash of metal, and above it all, the ceaseless roaring of Rauros. Boromir fought with all of his might, but the arrows now came afresh, and he could not avoid them all. At first he could still fight, but the pain and the blood loss began to tell on him. Another volley of arrows assaulted him; he fell to his knees. The hobbits cried out in horror as one last time he raised his sword to defend himself, and it was broken at the hilt with a resounding clang. He tried to tell the hobbits to run one last time, but arrows had pierced his lungs and his voice was no more than the barest of whispers.

The Uruks no longer bothered with him, and, overwhelming the Halflings, knocked them on the head and hoisted them onto their shoulders, and marched away, double time.

Boromir was overcome with pain physical, mental, and emotional. His eyes followed the shapes of the hobbits, tied up and secured like booty and carried like sacks by the orcs. Oh, what evil designs would come upon them? He tried to call to them again, but it was no use. Still holding onto the broken hilt of his sword, he dragged himself over to the nearest tree with great effort and rested against it. Oh, had he done nothing right in his life? He failed Frodo; he failed Merry and Pippin; he had failed the Fellowship. He realized with a sudden clarity that the Fellowship was no more. For all he knew, the rest had been slaughtered or captured as well. And it was all his doing…His eyes widened and his mouth opened in pain as he tried to pull out an arrow, but he was too weak. It was over. His eyes closed. The rush of the falls slowly lulled him to sleep…

Without warning, hurried footsteps permeated his hearing. They halted next to him, and it seemed he could hear the brush crunch as the figure knelt. Was it an orc come back to finish him off?

With the remnant of his strength he forced his eyes to open. It took them a while to focus, and when they did, he was overcome with a sort of peacefulness.

It was his king.

Boromir strove to speak – his mind was teeming with everything that he wanted to tell him! His throat and tongue, however, did not want to cooperate. But Aragorn must know! Finally, he forced enough breath through his lungs to create words.

What was most important to Boromir came first. 'I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I am sorry. I have paid.' Yes, he had suffered for it. His eyes roved the ground, strewn with his fallen enemies. He had joined in their battle, and he had lived just long enough to see the promise of what horrors the hobbits might have to endure. 'They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them.' The strain suddenly became too much for him, and he could no longer keep his eyes open. Elessar said nothing, but seemed to wait for him to continue, or was thinking about what must be done in order to right Boromir's wrongs. At length he spoke again. 'Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed.'

'No!' Aragorn disagreed with great force. He took Boromir's hand, then leaned forward and reverently kissed his brow. 'You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace. Minas Tirith shall not fall!'

Boromir smiled. He would pass with the blessing of his liege, and friend. With a final shuddering breath, Boromir let go, and his soul suffered the Doom of Men ordained by Illuvitar at the dawn of Middle-Earth.


End file.
